


With Dream and Smoke and the Only Flame in the Universe

by cielnoir



Series: The Orphic & The Numinous [1]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: 1x10 canon compliant, Abuse, Backstory, Character Study, Desire, Dreams, F/M, Fate, Gen, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Lancelot's childhood, Missing Scenes, Nimulot - Freeform, Parallels, Scars, Symbolism, The Weeping Monk/Lancelot-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:39:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26232814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cielnoir/pseuds/cielnoir
Summary: Bloodied like the scarlet juice of the pomegranate he once tasted in his fever dream, the slashes on his back possess a lot of stories of their own. Taking a step back and seeing them in their whole is another painful tale to tell. Though, bound to be hidden, they’re just one array of large reddish strokes left abandoned beneath the heavy dark fabric of his grey robe, prisoners in the arms of silence.They were his damn Scars, recalling him how much remembering is the worst curse.
Relationships: Father Carden/ The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Nimue/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Squirrel | Percival/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Series: The Orphic & The Numinous [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1910101
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	With Dream and Smoke and the Only Flame in the Universe

**Author's Note:**

> Hey ! This is my first ever fanfiction about Cursed (2020). Let's just say that I craved for more Weeping Monk/Lancelot content and the little glimpse we've got from him pushed me to explore and speculate on his origins. I found his story-arc throughout the series beautifully written and perfectly entertwined itself with Nimue's. This hunger of mine toward the mystery of his character translated itself through this long one-shot. I would like to thank my bff and beta reader[@sweetspringday](https://sweetspringday.tumblr.com/), Julie, who accompanied and supported me during my writing journey. Go follow her :) 
> 
> Disclamer : I do not own the rights to Cursed and the canon characters, dialogues and featured plot. All rights go to the respective creators.  
> Moreover, English is my second language so if you notice some grammatical mistakes and wierd syntax, I apologize in advance. 
> 
> Enjoy !

**“** _Only a soul full of despair can_  
_ever attain serenity and, to be_  
_in despair, you must have loved_  
_a good deal and still love the world_ **”**

**—** Blaise Cendrars

**HE FELT LIKE DROWNING**. Cold water surrounding him, suddenly getting warmer, because of his face burnt by the effort. As physical as it was mental, this flagellation, in particular, never felt so harrowing to the flesh yet oh so freeing to the soul. The multiple lashes brought to him a certain peaceful feeling of comfort. An immediate nurturing result after an excessive demonstration of his passions. More than an immature behavior that needed punishment, it was his fatal inattention that had to be brought to task. A huge defect that betrayed his reputation and cost him to unwittingly reveal his hidden nature to the public eye. And not in front of anybody... the enemy's leader. It wouldn't surprise him if The Green Knight soon fess up what he witnessed now that he benefited from a leverage, even after calling a _brother_. Maybe he wouldn't have the time to because of Brother Salt's friendly acolytes, the archangels, his part of the canon Kitchen's ustensils. The Fey warrior surely must have made Uriel's acquaintance... or worst, Lucifer's. He might be dead by now, who knows ?

Should he check up on him once more ? No, Abbot Wicklow's morbid curiosity and the Trinity guards would notice it, finding his coming and going suspicious.

Either way, they both promised to pray for each other. And the Weeping Monk was a man of his word. He always kept his promises. So he did. The ultimate twentieth lash―which generously marked his right bicep, above the nasty trace left by The Green Knight's blade on his elbow―was followed by an invocation to His Grace, pleading him to save the chief's lost soul, to guide him toward the long way of redemption during what could be his final hours. Though, oddly, he felt guilty facing the cross. Mainly because he genuinely wanted his soul to be saved. This complete stranger showed more compassion than any other individual he ever got in touch with. And he deeply feared the dangerous outcome of such intense exchange. The doubt, the soul-searching consumed every fiber of his mortal being.

What an appalling conclusion. The Young Monk wanted his greatest nemesis alive. Thriving.

That's when he comprehended how clever the Devil could be, taking forms that will tear and crush his heart _―_ like a friend, a brother, an uncle... a Father. Hence the reason why he had to be stronger. Religiously and physically speaking. Keep resisting in the name of God, to reach better the Holy Grail. That is to say, to forget his repentance and briskly walk the path of his salvation. Father Carden cautioned him against the power of his demonic shape-shifting, an incredible weapon that would rush one towards his own destruction.

The horrid thought of this hypothesis unexpectedly troubled him. So much that his apnea had to come to an end.

The Weeping Monk arose his head from the wooden bucket to catch his breath. For a few seconds, his silver blue eyes stopped upon the old green covered Bible _―the Book of Kings―_ on the table next to his bloodied tunic and worn out sponge, the one Father Carden transcribed in his younger years at the Landévennec Abbey. The exact one he offered him the day he took his little seven year-old self under his wing when he spared him from the fire. A memory which appeared like a strange vestige of the past now he recalled it. More than that, actually, it was an ajar door he wanted to close forever.

The life he had before. No, now wasn't the time to remember.

Far away could be heard the distintic sounds of chopped wood near the camp. The Red Army was preparing itself for what appeared to be a icy deadly night in few hours as evidenced by the white smoke escaping from his mouth.

The Young Monk dove back, like he usually did after a tenacious corporal punishement, piercing the watery mirror displayed by his blurred reflection.

The freshness of the water pacified the pain of the twenty strokes of whips he just inflicted himself. Ten for his loss of carelessness in the woods. Ten others for deliberatingly discussing an order in front of Abbott Wicklow. In all sincerity, he didn't feel fully bad for this remark–nay not at all. After all, this Squirrel boy was, as a matter of fact, just a child. A child who didn't choose to live as a Fey. A child who didn't choose to lose his family. A child who didn't mean no harm and didn't deserve any violent treatment because of his demon blood. His ten years of existence on this bloody earth were already filled with extreme brutality. Adding some more is merely an untolerable idea. The least a true soldier of His Almighty Father could do was to spare his innocent soul, despite his supposed abomination. By letting him live, the Young Monk wouldn't see his guilt grow. He will, nevertheless, allow the boy's secret wish be fullfiled : to live freely among his kind. Flourishing.

Yes, that's what the Weeping Monk desired for the young orphan fey. Happiness. Gaiety. A life tinged with freedom and youthful lack of care, or the most wonderful gifts life ever offered. Or a notion completely detached from him. Totally unknown.

The truth was, he hadn't seen a youthful soul so fierce and committed to his cause like him before. He couldn't help but admire it. Seeing this towering raw braveness embodied in a four foot five of height inspired him, made him think, widen his inner blame toward his former fragility back then compared to him. For this reason, The Weeping Monk just had to let him go that night in the Iron Woods, thrive in turn. In another life, he would have run like him if he had the chance to. Or perhaps not.

Squirrel hit the nail on the head that day when he called him _a hedge-born na_ _ï_ _f_.

The young monk gasped underwater, a succession of bubbles exploded in the surface.

Yes. He was a naïf. And one of the worst kind.

He flinched when a few droplets hit the series of four little curved fading scars on his left shoulder blade.

Then he remembered. He remembered that sunny morning when a murder of red robes that invaded erst Trèbes' field of ox-eye daisies. Trèbes, being the last village harbouring Ash Folks in the region of Armorica. He remembered his light shamrock camouflage over the secret bolthole's emerald-green grass not too far from the village, by the entrance of the Brocéliande Forest. This place had a special meaning to him because he used to sneak out frequently up there and pretended he owned the land as if he were a King. He always brought Gamel up there, the small magnificent white golden eagle. Together, they formed a powerful partnership where they both let their wings stretched. Little did they know it were to be the last time they'll leave the ground above the invasive flames and heaps of dead corpses. This time separately.

His late mother Elaine called upon him to hide behind the imposing rock and stay safe, wearing his power as protection, until cousin Lionel would come to him. She hugged him goodbye, whispering tenderly to his ears “ _Born in the dawn to pass in the twiligh_ t” one last time as loving farewell. He remembered the echoes of his old father Ban's wailings and the heavy scent of straw, blood and burning flesh before letting his legs taking him away from this hellish scene.

He stopped breathing when a pair of brown leathered sandals approached his laying invisible small figure. His gaze travelled upward. A long red robe, a brown leather belt, a rosary... The Ash boy froze. Before the child could get up and run, the man stood in his way, telling him to not move and stay calm. “There is no need to” he calmly declared as he invited him to sit close to him on one of the large rocks that went alongside the forest. The Weeping Monk was sure of one thing though. Squirrel, him, would have fought, if not physically, verbally. And spit at his scary wrinkly face, though he did nothing of the sort. His little eyes watched the burning while his little ears listened the stories of a paradisiacal field being threatened by destructive weeds.

“You see, I dedicated my life to help the one in need. And you seem to be a good boy who desires to be helped, are you, my child ?” the Red Paladin asked.

He nodded, as a tear run down his ash marks. In the distance, he swore he could have hear his parents' cries... Or were they mere whispers, begging him to flee and live ?

“What can you do to help me, my dear child ?”

With a shaking voice, the seven-year old explained what his parents told him from what he, like every Ash Folk feys, was capable of during his lessons about the Hidden : a keen sense of smell, an uncomparable mental and physical strengh and knowledge of the human/magical body language. For instance, if one lied, they sense it. Not forgetting their recongnition of the Fey kind.

The old man leisurely acquiescied. The fey boy's words seemed to utterly pleased him, making up ideas for what cruel fate awaited him.

He came closer to his face and whispered : “I am Father Carden”.

In the end, those little weeping eyes and ears of his found themselves _purified_ in the Tremelin Lake, the biggest Brittany ever knew. Rumors says a great wizard, whose name shall not be spoken, found shelter there saving hundred Pixies from the flames and the crucifixions. Father Carden's iron fist was so hard that his fingertips dug into the Ash boy's neck, leaving four distinct red marks while he serenaded verses from the Bible. His chant, muffling the infant's suffocations. Later, the child was removed from everything he ever knew. The plural Hidden became a singular God. The flowery offerings became joining hands in front an altar.

The Ash boy received a new name, a new identity. Father Carden invented a lie to his brothers that day, stating he was a bastard child originally from Paimpont Village, held hostage in Trèbes. A covered up human in the ultimate Ash Folk's tribe. The Weeping Monk knew since then that holiness didn't lay upon the robe of these men. Nonetheless, Acceptance wasn't part of his rich vocabulary though the Book repeatedly defended this value. But the rest of the Red Paladins perceived him as an outcast considering the strange red tear-like birthmarks under his eyes. Yet, he was presented as a good asset to achieve the field's entire purification since he observed closely the Feys, lived with them long enough to know how to destroy them. And there Father Carden's work began.

First and foremost, it commenced with the very strict discipline he was given in order to forget every miscreante things he ever lived by. The fey boy had to attend the mass, learn by heart all the prayers, read the Old and New Testament and transcribe them. Father Carden was very uncompromising on this point. His meticulous taste for construction had to be shown. He wanted the best for this child, even if it would lead to extreme violence.

You can say it. Life as a Young Monk was harsh, the life of permanent isolation and brutality.

His sojourns at Hawksbridge tested his ability to not engage with other kids. In fact with anybody. For instance, there was this entire week he spent there at the age of thirteen. Thirteen, a symbolic year in which he saw his classic brown robe being changed in aid of a new hooded dark grey one in the village's church. The Ash boy always wore a color other than red, like a scum of the earth the villainous young priests in training would affirm. While, actually, he was special, and his authoritarious figure was pleased to show it to everybody just as a scarce golden relic. Earlier that year, at St Marie-Madeleine's house of prayer in Sheep Herd, Father Carden said to him :

“From now on, this habit will mark your entry in a new age, my son.”

“Am I becoming some kind of Trinity guard Father ?” the young boy curiously asked. As far back as he can remember, the only persons who wore this attire are those spooky golden faces warriors. He took the time to study them when the old man met Pope Abel, outside tents or chapels.

“You won't become just a mere guard, you'll be God's mighty cleansing blade. Now that you're first cycle of scripture has ended, you're body too will eventually demand a scripture of its own. An important physical one in order to become the true advenging sword of light you meant to be”. Father Carden paused. He put his other hand on the teen's right shoulder, tightening his grip. “Hence the reason why I must forge you and you'll have to obey”.

Obeying. In hindsight, that was the only thing he was good at in his life.

Father Carden had this important meeting with Brother Theophillius at Saint Auguste's parish to discuss more substantially the extinction of the Fey kind. While the secret character of this meeting had to remain behind close doors, the old man asked the teenager to pray for them so the Lord could smile everyday. He was about to do it but clashes of swords in the distance captured his attention away from the great chapel's altar, away from the prayer. A group of six boys and girls about his age were fighting. As much as they clearly displayed their talented skills, a child stood out in particular. A light-skinned black fellow who held a sword so easily, as if it was a mere feather, beating in two shakes of a lamb's tail every opponents. He whirled it around and around. The Ash teen could have swore hearing a voice revealing how a promising knight he would become. Oh, how he wanted to challenge him... And why not becoming friends as well ? He didn't know any single brother who nicely wanted to make his acquaintance. The looks nonetheless spoke by themselves : disgust, hatred, pity, the mockings. Kids and adults taken together.

But Father Carden had other plans for him, isolation being a part of it. So was silence.

The same night, the Ash teen took five whiplashes for disrespecting a holy order, thanks to little Brother Jean’s snitching. Father Carden, in the same occasion, shaved the center of the boy's head where he drew a cross on which he'll have to redo the act once a month to reinforce his faith.

Besides, the sensations of tinglings returned when a soft breeze entered the creamy tent, recalling him the fact that he just did it. He should put water on this area straight after, as well and cleaning the knife he left on the altar. His sword too.

The Weeping Monk had been gifted of two swords in his life. He decided to keep the short one after months and months of training for the three years that succeded his theorical scripture. He supposed he identify his desire to keep it as sentimental. The second one he received was crafted by the hand of the best blacksmith of the realm : Enguerrand de la Mare. Its originality lied on the sharpness and a cross in the middle of the guard.

The Young Monk didn't blush when it came to show his incredible physical skills. He grew up to be one of the most athletic soldier the Red Army ever trained, given the excrusiating amount of hours on the mud. His transformation made Father Carden nothing but proud. Muscles comparable to an Adonis began to be sculpted, though had to remain beneath the heavy fabric of his robes.

Pain was the key of his success and tended to remind him how much humanity he possessed despite his demonic blood.

He liked quoting Father Carden who initiated him to the blessing practice that was flagellation. The old man gave credit to it during his youth, praising how good this method led to wisdom. So efficient that it even participated in laying the few bricks of the edifice the young man was able to pile progressively on his own. His first whipping dates back the age of eleven, five lashes for his lack of concentration. If you look closely at his back, you can see the scars left by Time. The Weeping Monk did not beat around the bush, he did his best. From whipping to everything. Truth was, the old man confirmed the idea that salvation came with hard work. Hard training, hard prayers, hard retribution. And while whipping was the best method the old priest ever chosen for him, he found a strong need to mark his flesh every time to remind him of his humanity.

“If you feel the merest voice of the Beast, seducing you, tempting you, tricking you into commiting any deed of sin, my child, this switch will aid you in shutting it down.” He paused, dropping off in his hands the switch he used on the little colt named Goliath. “You are old enough to assume this capital responsability, it is not mine anymore”. He was fifteen.

Only the scarlet red marks on his back had the right to paint his porcelain skin, other than the teary ones beneath his eyes. They became dark red, almost brown anyway by dint of years and years of self-control. Truth was these scars would lit up. Because when stress, anger and excitement overwhelmed him, the demonic roots he carried every day tended to unveiled themselves. A barbaric nature which seemed somehow unknown until this day. It wasn't the first time he doubted the flagellation’s efficiency. This retribution may have some flaws but at least, the lights were turned out.

Little did he know that all this sensation of control was temporary as well as it was fanciful. He must persevere. Hidding his weaknesses, like he's hiding from his own disgust self, his damned body. He learnt to accept many things in the few years of his existence. That his nature will never change. Even if forced himself in the path of salvation, the road will always bound to be a end with a void or worst.  
  
An everlasting retribution like Sisyphus’ destiny, forced to roll an immense boulder up a hill only for it to roll down every time it neared the top. He was a wandering damnation that even God was too ashamed to save so the Devil could entertain himself with the absolutely terrific toy that was his tortured soul.

The serpent still embed in his stomach at anyrate. Its venom spreading. The symptoms appearing. Doubt and emotions. Guilt.

He adjusted his face in the bucket. Though as he bent, a strand of his chesnut brown hair fell and dove in the water as well. This movement caused the open the former scar on his lumbar.

The Moon Wings, the Tusks, the Skyfolks, the burning of Minautor Valley. He took no joy in doing this. He just wanted to purify the land quickly like he was told to. Ending life without suffering or a promised he swore to not break.

A precious tool, that's all he was. Meant to be use but not loved for its full worth. The real question was, did Father Carden even love him ? He may have showed him compassion through but they were quickly remplaced by iron fists and hundred whippings.

Was this the true definition of a being Red Paladin ?

When one says that life as a man of a cloth is a life of pure devotion and holiness in every senses of the word, one can be wrong. Indeed, fornication and drinking imposed themselves to be the most entertaining activities the red robed men ever devote themselves to.

Some late hours, his _brothers_ would mockingly sang _L’autrier m’iera levaz copulate_ with women of the night at _La Perle de Madame_ , the most well-known brothel of Hawksbridge, abandoning the responsabilites of the cloth for the sake of a short lasting pleasure. Several nice ladies of little vertue tempted to remove The Weeping Monk's hood or at least propose their company for the night, not knowing in fact that he was secretly engaged to his dearest bride, Loneliness. Even Goliath, his handsome black purebred arab wouldn't dispute the fact. If he were gifted with a voice, he would attest his owner's holy faithfulness. Meanwhile, his fellows _―_ mainly Brother Odo, Maurice and Pierre _―_ being the ones who already lowered their frocks after a mere wink from Agnès or an irresistible fondle from Cicaly. They enjoyed the slightest pleasures life offered.

No, this life of sins and scandals didn't suit him. Not when any loss of control could prevent him from accomplish rightly his holy task.

The Weeping Monk didn't belonged to this existence itself. The serpent within him still writhes. The venom kicked in. It was a mere question of time before a total infection.

Maybe the Weeping Monk wasn't a real monk after all. But if he wasn't a monk, what was he ? A man or a monster ?

Flashes of his baptism struck his mind. Starting with a big hand grabbing by the back of him neck, pushing him further and further down the crystal water of Trémelin's Lake, the day of his baptism. Ending with the wailings, the blood, the cluelessness, the sorrow.

Ever since the Scourge of Dewdenn, the Young Monk saw his daily life beign completely devastated. He tried to hide it, the best that he could but he failed today. The Ash man had to stop his long apea. He suffocated.

As he lift his head from the water, the wooden bucket fell on the floor. They were back, the migraines, the vertigos, It was too much. The memories, the indistinct whispers, this scent... It was happening again. The familiar consequences of repression were back, always finding a way to haunt him back, in his lonely confessions, prayers or his sleepless nights in his nightmares.

Moving away from the wooden bucket, the Young Monk staggered around the tent. All the elements that composed his large quarter became blur. His head hit hardly the ground with a thud and blackness was the last thing he remembered seeing.

Ξ Ξ Ξ Ξ

**HE FELT LIKE FLOATING.** Water delicately wrapped itself around his achy body such as the softest velvet made by the royal seamstress of the Pendragons. Everything felt unexpectedly relaxing. Calming. The last time he ever experienced this kind of peaceful state was in the arms of his late parents. They used to sing him a lullaby about _Tristan and Isolde_ 's infamous tragedy by the crackling fire.

That's odd. Deeply, he could still hear them. This atmosphere was bizzarely calm for his taste. Too calm.

He snap out of it and opened his crystal blue eyes. It was dark but a trail of blood quickly covered his cloudy field of vision. The Weeping Monk lowered his head to see the origin of the blood. In the bottom, a woman's body, fading in the darkness. Alerted, the Ash man was struck by braveness. He wanted to grap one of her raised hands with intention to reach together the surface, yet he was too far. 

She disappeared.

And as if the current forced him to go higher, invisible wings fluttered, helping him rise up to the surface. Unfortunately, he had to accept the idea of letting her go. Though, as he swam, something hindered his way. Indistinct in the first place, his sight adapted to the darkness. He quickly realised that it was the corpse of a slit-throat Moonwing. The Weeping Monk moved aside, terrified by the sight. What the hell was Death doing underwater, haunting him ? He swam higher some more, and when he thought he was in the clear, a red bloodied robe was foundering followed by a dead deer, an arrow piearcing its long furry neck. This horrifying spectacle fueled his willlpower to exit this lake as soon as possible, to rapidly reach the light up there.

When the young man came up for air, he coughed, rejecting the surplus of liquid off his system.

He joined the ground before slowly getting back on his feet. His gaze inclined toward his surroundings, scanning the dark cave. There was tree in middle. A thin rey of sunlight pierced the darkness and enlightened the colorful sapling. The sight was so picturesque like a divine canvas that needed to be paint, or at least being drawn in the booklet of his concealed in his boot. He didn't picked it because of this spellbinding view.

Was it an apple tree ? No, the fruit at the tip of the branches were much redder than usual. It surely had to be pomegranate tree.

He step back from the water, the pond or whatever this was. A soft breeze hit the bare porcelaine skin of his torso until reality hit him. He was wearing the same attire : his usual black leather boots and black pants.

Otherwise, what was unusual was the large circle of whiteness at the bottom of the trunk. A raven pecking at the fruit. The Ash man did likewise. He picked up the closest one from the dazzeling green leaves, hypnotized by such natural beauty. His heartbeat sped up. His fingertips caressed its fleshy peel before opening the fruit, cutting it in both halfs.

Those numerous red ruby seeds were glinting, inviting to the touch as it was to the mind, summuning him to imagine a diversity of possibilities for his mortal self to be. Millions facets, millions chances offered at his reach. Almost tempting.

Not knowing how to propely feast on the pomegranate because of his state of great hunger, the Young Monk brought the fruit to his mouth, without thinking. He felt wrong as if he didn't want to be seen or catch doing something Forbidden. When his lips finally came in contact with the exotic fruit's sugary aroma, he completely lost it. A famished, almost euphoric, sigh escaped his mouth, abstracting the painful feeling of the peel sliting his bottom lip. Oh, he forgot how delicious the sin of gluttony sin could be. In this exact moment, he wanted to grab the switch and whip himself for having the audacity to think so lightly of a deadly sin... however, and for a reason that went beyond of any understandings, he didn't care. Right now, all that mattered was the delicious savor of this pomegranate roaming on his tongue.

The Weeping Monk didn't even noticed the red drops' juice and blood falling, getting mixed up before staining the blanket of snow beneath his boots.

But there was this scent, strong yet oddly soft, still embalming his nostrils since the sojourn at Yvoine Abbey. A sweetness like no other, a delicate mix between orchid and lavender. Hers. He didn't admit it to Father Carden back then ? Pretending but he knew deep down the truth behind the lie. The scent was as clear as the crystal water not to far from him. He only wished he could see her.

The Young Monk suddenly let go of the fruit. Two branches came out from the ground and wrapped themselves aroung his wrists, pinning him firmly down to the ground. Another one found its way around his neck, keeping him still.

On his knees, the branches held him tight but loosened a little bit as a feminine silouhette drew timid steps toward him, entering in the light. Familiar echoes of whispers were heard.

That's when he saw it.

Her. Beaming.

If the pomegranate tree and its seeds were extarordinary wonders, she was one of the rarest pearl to behold.

She, The Sorceress, The Wolf Blood Witch. Her cobalt blue dress caressed the grass, her medium bronze brown long hair mould her generous chest, her heart, pierced by an arrow. And when she arrived close enough to him, she drew a curious hand to his face, still wet from the lake. His mouth was still swollen red from his generous bite.

She was right there, in front of him. He could have easily extract himself from those plant chains, still he didn't make any move, frozen to place, awed by the woman standing in front of him.

“Let me find her Father” he remembered saying in the Iron Woods. “And I shall kill her” he continued silently. Who was he at that time to spit such barbaric words, especially when he's seeing her in her whole grandeur ? She aimed the sword to his chin raised his head a bit higher, her face stern. The Young Monk was lost. He seeked answers with the view to understand better what caused this conflicted in him. And she appeared to be one of the few answers he could grasp, if not admire.

He prayed His Grace and She answered.

Was she his path for salvation and destruction. Both Eve and Lilith ? The poison and the cure ?

She, a restful presence that southed him into a state of pure serenity... of understanding. Not to mention the light of truth _―_ or at least a glimpse of _―_ he was desperately seeking through his suffering. The irony in all this was the fact that he forgot all the pain of the branches at this specific moment, merely because there were none. An unseen feeling of warmth spread. A fresher one compared to a hellish deadly one.

So the Young Monk waited. He never remove his eyes from her angelical demonic face, anticipating her every move, tracking her fingertips approaching his right cheeks. Instead, she stood up and circled around him, like a predator would do with its prey. The Fey Witch finally stopped behind his back. The Weeping Monk never felt so exposed, shirtless. Without his grey robe to cover him, he was completely naked. He sensed her eyes akin to a gentle touch which accompagnied light slide of the Devil's Tooth's shaped tip on all along his scars. Or was it her fingernail ?

He shuddered. His red lips quivered as he abruptly felt his upper cheeks burning, lightening up in a color he knew oh to well : a bloody pomegranate red.

Her breathings reached his upper back. He couldn't bear it anymore, this unknown feeling, the way his body reacted to the fruit and her touch. He was agonizing, craving for this sorrow to end for the Judgement Day to come. Maybe the world would be a better place without him. He'll find peace in his eternal sleep, he wouldn't hear the whispers. Yet, he listened to them. They intensified themselves when the Wolf Blood's Witch's dress skimmed his back.

In this present moment, he let himself falling into the arms of the Hidden. They spoke, he focused.

_Dark... Save.... Angel... You.... Her... Them._

The task was more difficult than it appeared. It took him to dive in the last ressources of energy left within him to concentrate on their voices with whom he made it clear since the early beginning that he cut them through, ignoring their callings.

Again, the Young Monk let them in as he closed his eyelids and listened.

_Save her._

_Save them._

_Free your wings,_

_You're rebirth is coming,_

_You will soon take flight, Dark Angel._

The last phrase ended up with the feeling of the Devil Tooth sharply tearing up the skin of his back causing The Young Monk to gasped.

He blinked and saw the dark cave being replaced by the sight of the black metal cross sited on the altar between two lightened cream colored candles. He found himself in a kneeling position on the goat furred rug next to the altar, back in his tent. 

How mindblowing was this experience. After years and years of repression, not only The Hidden came back to him and showed him the girl and the sword, but also seemed to have unlocked something in him. More precisely, vines detaining him. The Weeping Monk may not have all the answers for the moment but right now, for the first time, his long lost amour-propre came back to the surface. He felt free and was ready to comit a hubris even if his downfall was to come. He first needed to find Squirrel who was certainly held hostage at Brother Salt's kitchen. This massive wave of emotions overwhelmed him.

The last thing he wanted was to be sure. He heard someone's footsteps. There was certainly just one person who dared to come in his quarter. One person who'll blame him for not attending his summons.

The conversation didn't stand out from the numerous ones he had in the past. It was a mere paraphrasing of everything he lived while love quickly was erased from the topic. The Weeping Monk wanted nothing but a confirmation, a spark of hope.

He got none of that, at least, not from this old man.

The Weeping Monk heard insults outside the tent, though he didn't pay any attention to them. He was upset by Father Carden's words, which pushed him to meditate some more by the cross.

Half an hour passed and still nothing. With that in mind, the Ash man who once was called Lancelot shed a last tear. The liquid travelled his birthmarks and ended its journey upon the Young Monk's lucious lips, mixing with the sweet aroma of the pomegranate he bit and blood.

He then learnt that this specific taste of passions and commitement had a name.

The sweet salty taste of Rebellion.

_**“** Hope is the thing with feathers _  
_That perches in the soul_  
_And sings the tune without the words_  
_And never stops at all. **”** _

_―_ Emily Dickinson 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Finished already ? I guess it's time for the "Behind the Fic", a special segment where you can get to know better the fic (references, backstory, translations...). If you're a nerd like me, here's a piece of infos and links that helped me during my writing process. 
> 
> The Title and why this choice : "With Dream and Smoke and the Only Flame in the Universe" is a quote from the book entitled [The Prose of the Trans-Siberian and of Little Jeanne of France (1913)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/La_prose_du_Transsib%C3%A9rien_et_de_la_Petite_Jehanne_de_France/). It was written by the French poet Blaise Cendrars, an author I had the chance to study his wonderful work. I've chosen this lovely quote because it perfectly capture the essence of this story : Lancelot's vision/dream being unclear (like every dream would be) and puzzeling, its true meaning being out of reach like smoke in the air. 
> 
> On Lancelot's (real) backstory : Elaine and Ban were his parents' real name. I invite you to read this great [ article](https://www.britannica.com/topic/Lancelot/) on Britannica.com
> 
> The song : [L’autrier m’iera levaz](https://www.medievalchronicles.com/medieval-music/medieval-songs/lautrier-miera-levaz/) is a popular French medieval chant from the 12th century. In this fic, the drunk Red Paladins are singing it in a parodical way, making fun of courtly love. I used this song with the view to reveal how unholy and reductive their perception of love is as they cash it on the ladies' lovely services. 
> 
> On [flagellation and its practice in catholic religion](https://www.catholic.com/encyclopedia/flagellation/)
> 
> More on [the pomegranate and its symbolism](https://www.thedailymeal.com/eat/pomegranate-most-seductive-fruit-them-all/)
> 
> La Perle de Madame = Madam's Pearl  
> 
> 
> *squeal in fey* I'm currently working on part II which, (shocker) will be as well a character study on Nimue.  
> Don't forget to drop your backfeed, comments and constructive criticism. They are more than welcomed and helpful to me.
> 
> Until next time xoxo.


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